


Loin de la foule déchainée

by coldgreydawn



Category: Engrenages | Spiral (TV)
Genre: Angst, Beatrice/Benedick vibe, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, France (Country), Franglais, Français | French, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, I can't believe it took them (read Joséphine) so long to get it, I love them and wish them the best, I want the Edelmans, I'm so sorry I keep moving from fic to fic, Kids and cats and living together and loving it, Lawyers, Legal Drama, Mature Love, Paris (City), Police, These two are so perfectly matched, and I hope to heck that rumoured Canal+ spin-off has them in it, bourgeoisie, colleagues to friends to lovers, discussions of rape, it's just my nature, maybe someday I'll finish all of my fics, plz, Éric is Joséphine's Gabriel Oak, Éric trying to manage his wife's emotional outburst and generally terrifying personality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldgreydawn/pseuds/coldgreydawn
Summary: Various Karlsson/Edelman drabbles and stories that have come forth from me since watching season 8 of Engrenages (Spiral).
Relationships: Joséphine Karlsson/Éric Edelman
Kudos: 2





	1. Part One - Prelude to a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the occasional French word or phrase here and there. I speak French at a beginner level, so I'm obviously going to write this in English, but I'd like everyone to realize that they are actually speaking French, not English.

Joséphine Karlsson would have been lying if she’d said, in the almost four years that they’d known each other, that she’d never thought about kissing Éric Edelman. She’d always found him attractive, right from the start, despite his inability or unwillingness to keep his hair trim, or, to attempt to style it in any way other than simply getting out of bed in the morning and running his fingers through it.

Right from the start, she’d been drawn to his impish, rumpled, charm and his obvious affection for her. No other man, save for maybe Pierre, had been so interested in _her_ as a person, had praised her for the traits that had gotten her far in her career, but also in trouble more times than she could count. Even as happy as she’d been with Pierre, Éric Edelman had still intrigued her.

And, as the fog of grief had started to lift after Pierre’s death, and she’d found herself untethered and adrift, Éric had been there to take her under his wing. And as unsavoury as the entire business with Ziani had eventually been, it still had been nice to be working again, to have something to put her back up against and a problem to solve to distract her from the gaping, empty hole in the centre of her chest.

And she’d enjoyed working with him. He’d had faith in her, had been pleasantly laissez-faire as a boss, trusting her to do the work and to do it right with very little interference from him, and had stood up for her to the partners despite her occasional gaffes.

She’d enjoyed being near him, enjoyed spending her days and evenings with him. They’d spent many a late night together, poring over documents and crafting arguments. And as she began to feel like herself again, there were times that she took a second look at Éric Edelman. At his creased shirts and five o’clock shadow, and the way his dark eyes danced when he was around her. The way his hair fell into his face sometimes, and how she’d been tempted a time or two to brush it back with her fingers.

She’d loved how easy it was to talk to him, loved his stupid little jokes and their verbal sparring matches. She’d loved how much trust he put into her and how he knew which tasks to give her to play exactly to her strengths.

But then the tables had turned, Vern Sr. had insinuated that it would either be her or Éric, and her old survival instincts had switched on. Betraying the man who’d rescued her from her grief had hurt, but it had also beat being cut loose yet again, attempting to find a new job when she wasn't exactly the most popular girl in the legal community. So, she’d chosen the safety of a secure job at a big firm and had quelled the guilt over dismissing Éric with a couple of bottles of wine, later that night, alone in her apartment.

But then he’d rescued her from her ensuant boredom not long after, showing up at Vern’s looking no worse for wear in a cloud of vape smoke, impossibly dapper and tousled and being ridiculously gracious considering how she’d only just gotten him thrown out of said firm on his ass. 

And then he’d offered her the case that had saved what was left of her career.

Not that she’d cared. She’d been so afraid of his retribution that he’d been the first one she’d thought of when she’d woken up under a bridge, sore between her legs and nursing a GHB-sized hangover. She still felt guilty when she thought about her suspicions of Éric after the rape, despite the fact that he’d never even attempted anything with her, nor had even made her feel uncomfortable in that regard.

But she’d tried to forgive herself for that. She saw it now for what it was. Vern Jr., the serial sexual predator, had been loathe to let her go from the firm, too content in letting his eyes wander over her body and fantasizing about her giving into him late one night to let her walk away without a fight. So he’d dropped the comment about Éric, playing on her fear of his revenge after her double-cross of him, and setting him up to be the first man to come to mind when she woke up confused and violated. 

But Éric had eventually won over her trust, and finding the true perpetrator of her rape had healed the rift in their relationship. He’d then saved her again, inviting her back to work with him when the firm sacked her after Vern’s accident, and giving her back the freedom that had been so lacking as a corporate lawyer. It had been a breath of fresh air in her time of need, and a way to try to move on from this latest of traumas in her relatively short life.

But she’d fucked it up again, with her ruthless pursuit of Machard for Bodin’s death, unable to keep her emotions in check when she thought of the young man dying for _le Procureur_ ’s pleasure.

But that hadn’t really mattered, though, in the long run.

Justice had caught up with her mere days later, and Éric had come to her rescue yet again, seeing right through the bullshit she was spewing as she tried to keep her motive for trying to kill Vern a secret. He'd been a calm, logical presence, slowly prying the truth out of her, bit by bit, while never passing any sort of judgement on her.

But Joséphine’s perception of Éric Edelman had changed dramatically the day she’d admitted the rape to him, and her actions toward her rapist, in the corridor outside Juge Esterhazy’s chambers. Especially when he’d taken her face in his hand and forced her to look into his eyes, and had doled out not reprisal, but compassion, and acceptance.

She’d been utterly taken aback by him at that moment. His voice had been impossibly soft, softer than she’d ever heard it, as he’d promised to get her out.

She supposed that was when things had first changed between them. That was the moment she realized that he’d do anything for her. That no matter what she did, he’d always come back to her. He'd always be at her side to face whatever came next. 

She’d never had anyone like that in her life. Not her father, not her mother or sister. Not Laure, or even Pierre. They’d all had their price. Their own personal needs that needed to be met before they’d lend their hand.

Éric did not. His support of her was unconditional. He asked for almost nothing in return. And while she was too caught up in her own problems to fully process it, she saw him much differently after that day. He'd become a part of her life, and the feelings she had for him were so perplexing that she tried not even to think about them.

And three-odd months later, after Lola'd come onto the scene, he’d kept his promise, having intimidated Jean-Etienne Vern into withdrawing his statement. He’d put a lot onto the line for her that day, and she still didn’t know what Éric had told her rapist to get him to back off. She wasn’t even sure if she even wanted to.

And the Éric Edelman she’d spied when the prison doors had opened was beginning to look very different to the one she’d met in a courtroom a few years before.

She’d been filled with affection for him the day she'd been released, and had circumstances been different, she might have attempted to show said affection in a much more physical way. But she hadn’t, then, mostly because her relationship with Éric was becoming one of the most sacred things in her life. Her feelings for him ran deep, deep below the surface of her brain and her heart, where not even she dared to tread.

But they overwhelmed her sometimes, nevertheless, and she always took care to push them back down, not yet ready to feel something that profound. It didn’t matter that she loved him for what he’d done for her, that she found him quite fetching in the high-collared coat he wore, or that she’d begun to associate the smell of him with protection and warmth.

For once in her life, she’d realized what a good thing she had with him and hadn’t endeavoured to ruin it.

But then he’d done that himself, conspiring to keep her under his thumb for longer, denying her the right to make her own choices about her career. Looking back, his intentions had probably been less malicious than she’d originally thought them to be. It was likely he’d been simply trying to protect her, trying to get her to take a break for a month and not over-exert herself in her work while she was still overcoming the trauma of the rape and her subsequent incarceration. And considering her bungling of the Bodin case earlier, while still filled with anger and impotent rage over the rape that would go unpunished, she knew he wasn’t entirely unwarranted.

But it had broken the hard-earned trust they’d forged between them. Trust that hadn’t been easy to build, considering her own childhood traumas and the cutthroat world of judicial intrigue they lived in. But he’d been there for her, coming to the rescue every time she floundered, always treating her with respect, and never ever making her feel like Vern had—like a piece of meat in a butcher’s window. And, over time, she’d come to put a great deal of trust into him.

But after she'd found the incriminating email on his computer, it hadn't mattered how much she loved the caring, respectful man he’d become. After she’d repaid the favour and gotten him out of custody, she’d gotten as far away from him as she could. Away from David Cann, away from his nightclub and his goons and that world, the one that Éric seemed content to mire himself in.

She’d buried herself in Lola, and her case, and the cases of dozens of other women who’d been through rape, and pretended like she didn’t need the man who’d been her partner in more ways than she’d cared to admit.

When Laure had come to her, confused as to why Joséphine was living with a woman and hadn’t spoken with her former colleague about Gilou’s case, it'd hit her hard. She hadn’t intended on seeing Éric again any time soon outside of a passing glance in the sunny foyer of the new _Palais de Justice_.

But when she’d entered the café to find him sitting there, fidgety and contrite, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d _missed_ him. So much. And she hadn’t even realized it, so caught up in domesticity with Lola and the possibilities it had held.

The feelings started to rise up in her again, as she sat across from him at the little table. And this time, having been away from him for so long, she’d been almost overwhelmed by them. Some of them she could name: affection, gratitude. A little bit of lingering resentment. But there was always more, lurking below the surface. Which was why she’d cut their little tête-à-tête short and had escaped out into the foyer.

She’d never been interested in women. But her terrible track record with men, and the fact that they’d seemed insistent on disappointing her for the rest of her life had led her down a different path. She’d opened up to Lola in a way that she hadn’t with anyone else.

Emotionally, it’d been one of the most intense relationships she’d ever experienced. She knew that part of that connection was due to the stress she’d been under while inside, and that she’d seen something in Lola that reminded her so much of herself at that age. She should have realized then, that it wasn’t love in the way she’d felt it before, but it had been something, someone, who she could be close to, who understood her and who wouldn’t let her down.

But she’d fucked that up, too.

And after that she wondered if maybe the problem wasn’t _men_ , but _her._ That she was damaged goods, destined to spend her life alone, yearning for that which she’d never find. Éric telling her off in the foyer in front of clients and colleagues—and seemingly ending their relationship—had only compounded that feeling.

But then she’d met Souleymane, and had started to feel feelings she’d never felt before. Responsibility, protectiveness. Pride. And learning that Éric had approached Lola at work, somehow winning her over and getting her to agree to continue prosecuting the case, had floored her. She’d been affectionately impressed by Éric’s tenacity and skill, and the delicacy with which he’d handled the girl.

After that, things had improved. It’d buoyed her to have him back in her life, even if he was determined to keep her at a distance. She couldn’t blame him. She’d treated him appallingly at times.

But everything had changed on the day he’d said his closing remarks.

For the words hadn’t just helped Lola Morieja to heal, they’d also touched Joséphine Karlsson deeply. Because Joséphine had never, and _would_ never get the chance to bring her rapist to justice. Never get the chance to stand up and tell the court in detail about waking up under the bridge, about the terror she’d felt, about finding her earring in Vern’s car and knowing it was all futile. He’d never go to prison and get the punishment he deserved.

Of course, that was all down to her. She’d all but burned that bridge, ran it down with her boss’s car and hadn’t even looked back. Though she couldn’t say it had all been in vain. He’d never do what he’d done to another woman again. And that would have to be enough.

But Éric’s words had unlocked something inside her, broken a dam that had been holding back the anger and resentment that'd brewed in her since the day after the internship party. And in hearing her situation put so succinctly, hearing the validation of her feelings and her situation, it had set something right. And as she sat there, so proud of Éric and of Lola, and of how far all _three_ of them had come, she felt like she might finally be able to heal.

And something else had begun to worm its way back into her heart that day. Because Éric was miles away from the man she’d shared a drink with not long before Pierre’s death. The man who'd scoffed at her ideals, who'd all but ridiculed her for thinking the truth had anything to do with a criminal case.

Because the man he’d become had pursued the truth without rest, and had used it to win Lola’s case. He’d tried to get it from Lola’s mother, only to have it fall out of the mouth of Bastien LeRoy and break the case wide open. The truth meant something to him now. And that he’d grown and changed so much since they’d met had truly touched her.

Watching him speak up for the girl, and for all women who’d endured what she and Lola had, had started to bring back those feelings that had risen up from time to time. And then seeing the happiness and contentment on Lola’s face as she spoke warmly of the lawyer who’d tried her case—something he had done for _Joséphine—_ had changed something irrevocably in they way she saw her colleague.

Later, she’d wonder if it had been the girl’s last gift to her—singing his praises, leaving, and all but shoving her former cellmate in Éric’s direction.

And when she’d come to him again, her young charge in tow, all but begging him to watch the boy for her, she knew she was pushing her luck. But the truth was that she had no one else. Not her sister, not Laure. _Certainly_ not her father. And definitely not Lola. She couldn't trust him in any state-run facilities, either. And every second that ticked by was another that Youssef was in danger, alone, and still having not yet seen his tenth birthday.

And no one else would’ve sat in front of her and patiently listened to her scheme to traffic a small boy across the border from Spain, risking her life, her career, and her hard-won freedom without telling her she was insane. And there was no one else in the world who she could have trusted to watch him for her in her own home and respect her privacy and her wishes and ask for nothing in return.

And when he’d agreed, holding out his hand for her keys, she’d been struck by such a rush of gratitude and affection that the urge to wrap her arms around him and kiss him had come back with a vengeance, surprising her with the force of it. But she’d held back, even if she hadn’t stopped thinking about it, and him, in those long hours she spent alone on the highway.

When she’d called him from a rest stop after driving for the better part of a day, and heard his calm, concerned voice, she knew she was passing a point of no return. The way she’d teased him, and they’d laughed together. The way she pictured him, in his shirt and slacks and sock feet, working, as ever, but still comfortably rumpled, while Souleymane sat safely nearby. The way she’d smiled and had been unable to stop. The way they’d spoken about Souleymane like he was their child, discussing their options for managing his addiction and other matters of his care, had clicked something into place.

That was when she knew she was in trouble. That was when she knew it had changed between her and Éric. There’d be no going back to the people they were before after this. Because they were embarking on something life-changing. Souleymane and his brother would be her responsibility. And until their parents were located or another solution was found, she’d be parent to two young boys.

And she knew Éric would not stay away. He would come when she called him. Especially now that he was also emotionally involved.

And the thought of Éric Edelman helping her raise two children had made her feel something she’d never felt before. Something almost indescribable. But, still, pleasant. Hopeful. And _right._ Imagining the two of them together as parents should've been ridiculous.

But it hadn't been. In fact, she couldn't _stop_ imagining it.

The phone call from outside Clermont-Ferrand had cemented it for her. Her feelings for Éric Edelman were burgeoning, and fast, with him taking up more and more space in her head and in her thoughts. She was falling, and fast, and the hope that blossomed up whenever she imagined the four of them as a family had been her motivation, spurring her home to Paris so they could reunite.

But then she’d come home to find Éric in a panic, clearly having just awoken to find the boy gone from her apartment, and she’d known, then, somehow, that her dream had been just that.

Pushing past Laure to see the boy that she’d come to love sprawled out in a puddle of water and blood had been its death knell.

But then she’d come home to Youssef and Éric, who’d been serving lunch to the boy, talking to him softly with a smile on his face, despite what Joséphine had told him a mere hour before over the phone.

They’d told Youssef after that, and had held his small body as it shook with sobs. He’d slept while Éric had comforted her, professing his guilt and his regret over his role in Souleymane’s death. But she hadn’t wanted to hear it. It hadn’t been Éric’s fault. It hadn’t even been hers. According to Laure, and the boys she would later speak to in the park, he’d been targeted.

She supposed that was made it so hard.

They’d both done everything in their power to keep him safe. She’d risked her life and her career time and again. Éric had watched him for two days, bought him new clothes and a new phone, trying to get him out of the life he'd been living, even going so far as to pay for a doctor to replace the Rivotril he’d taken. It should have been enough. But the same urge that had led Souleymane to try heroin had sent him from the safety of her home and into the clutches of the same man who’d killed his friend.

She’d sat on the bed with Youssef when he woke, the air thick with sorrow as she held him against her. Éric hadn’t left their side for a minute, hovering gloomily, bringing her tea and comforting her with his touch.

It was then that, the three of them bathed in the diffuse blue light of a cloudy Paris day which matched their moods almost too perfectly, she’d looked over at him as he stood at the window and realized that she never wanted him to leave. It had hit her hard, and she couldn’t believe it had taken as long as it had. And although she’d blamed it at first on her grief, the feeling hadn’t dissipated, and she’d realized soon after that it’d been something that’d been building ever since that day in the courtroom. The day he’d helped to set her free.

At some point, Éric had slipped out and gotten what he needed to cook them a fairly intricate and delicious pasta dish, and although their appetites had been non-existent, Joséphine had cajoled the boy out of bed to wash his hands for the meal. And as they sat down to eat, the smells coming from the kitchen had won them both over.

They’d all eaten well, and had even managed to have a few laughs as Youssef, still imbued with the innocence and resilience of childhood, had told them some funny stories about his brother and their childhood together. They’d talked about his life, both back in Morocco, and in Spain, and it wasn’t long before Éric had won him over just as he had with his older brother.

Éric Edelman was surprisingly good with children. She'd tried not to think about _why_ that fact made her heart constrict with an unnamed emotion.

And after, she’d put him to bed while Éric had gathered the dishes, and it had been so soft and domestic, so foreign and yet so familiar, that her heart had ached with the thought that the boy’s father would be taking him back to an uncertain future in less than 24 hours. She hadn't wanted it to end. It just felt so _right_ for the three of them to be together life this. Like a family.

She’d been seeking it with Lola, she realized now. Two mistreated women desperately trying to make a home together. The happy home that neither of them had ever really had. But it was misguided on Joséphine’s part. She’d been so caught up in the emotional connection she’d shared with Lola, something she’d never had with anyone else before, that she hadn’t realized it was just that—two women connecting over a shared past and a shared trauma, while under the extreme duress that came along with being incarcerated.

She supposed she’d wanted to feel that way about Lola. But it wasn’t her. As much as she knew that the girl had loved her, she hadn’t been able to make herself feel the same way. She simply wasn’t built that way.

But with Éric, it was possible. She saw that now. As appallingly as she’d been treated by men over the years, with the male sex was still where her romantic and sexual attraction lay. And she’d always been drawn to him, always loved the way he challenged her and how he admired her as much as he loved her.

Because he did love her; it showed in every single thing he did for her.

It showed as she approached to find him morosely loading the dishwasher, a task he’d started without any prompting. It showed in the meal he’d cooked for the three of them. And she’d seen it in his eyes when he’d comforted her. How he would do anything to take the pain from her.

So, she’d laid it all out, telling him the facts and trying to get him to understand that she no longer wanted to do this alone.

But he’d put up boundaries in the months since David Cann had nearly been his downfall. She suspected it was an act of self-preservation, trying to keep himself separate from her and his heart shielded from pain. Before, he would have succumbed to her immediately, pledging to stay, to help her, give her everything she needed.

But her rejection of him and her subsequent disappearance from his life must have hurt him more than he’d ever admit. He’d since put up walls, and she needed them down, and quick. Because her desperation grew by the second as she watched him pull on his jacket.

She needed him. Wanted him, even. By her side. And she didn’t want him to leave. Not now, not ever.

So, when he was at the door, she’d swallowed her pride and made an entreaty to him for the first time in her life, asking him to stay. And the hope on his face as he turned around, confirming her wishes, had buoyed her, even as it terrified her.

Because she wasn’t sure if she could live up to what he wanted from her. She wasn’t sure that she could do this and not fuck it up like she had so many times before.

But the fear of that was nothing compared to the fear of him leaving her alone with her grief. The fear of never having what she so desperately craved—a family. Someone to come home to. Something to ground her and save her from herself. And more than that—she was strangely drawn to the idea of the two of them as parents, even if that terrified her even more.

And so, she’d answered him, her heart hammering away in her chest, the blood pounding in her ears. She was shaking, although she’d done a good job of hiding it.

“ _Oui_ ,” was all she’d said, but it had completely changed everything.

The relief on Éric’s face had been palpable, but she hadn’t had time to think on it, because he was stepping toward her, and her hand was finally, _finally_ , in his hair as he pressed his lips against hers.

And it was glorious. Because kissing Éric Edelman felt like coming home.


	2. Part Two: Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sex. It's still T-rated, though.

The door was somehow closed behind them. Éric’s jacket was removed, falling to the floor with a soft _fwump_ , and slowly, as if they were both afraid of scaring the other away, they moved to the sofa.

Tentative kisses had progressed into something much more desperate, much more needful, and Joséphine found herself pressed into the velvet of the tiny sofa by the weight of Éric Edelman’s body.

It was marvelous, really, to finally feel him against her, after years and years of fumbling toward this inexorable result. So, she enjoyed it, enjoyed the press of him against her centre and the weight of him on her, enjoyed the way he tasted and smelled, so familiar and yet new.

There was already so much between them, so much history and emotion, that it wasn’t long before what had been desperate and spontaneous turned much more significant and rather profound.

The way he looked at her when he broke their kiss, like he’d move heaven and earth for her if she asked, was almost too much. His love for her had never been a secret, but to see it now, in his eyes and feel it in his kiss and his touch, well, it was something else entirely. It was earth-shattering.

It was hope. Hope and possibility.

And then something occurred to her suddenly, as their two bodies crowded onto the tiny divan together. She broke their kiss and reached up over a puzzled Éric to pull the back of the sofa forward once until it clicked, and then push it away from them, and suddenly they were lying atop a small bed.

And the look he gave her had told her everything she needed to know.

“Did you not know it folded down?” she asked, affection and amusement filling her heart so full she felt it might burst.

He gave a noncommittal shrug, and she laughed, gently caressing the back of his neck. Then, he reached down and actually lifted her into the centre of the bed before lying down beside her. And then they gazed at each other in the soft blue light streaming in through the window.

Everything had changed, now. There was no turning back, not after this. Even _she_ couldn’t write this off as a desperate shag between friends. There was too much in the way he looked at her. Too much fondness in her chest when she looked at him, at the length of his hair and his jaded, rumpled exterior. An exterior that she suspected hid a man much kinder and much more emotional than he’d ever let on.

So, she kissed him. Chastely at first, but then his mouth opened beneath hers and it became much more fervent, much more laden with need and want and everything they'd gone through together.

After that, there wasn’t much said. His hands found their way to the fly of her jeans, unfastening them with ease and gently pulling them down over her underwear-clad hips.

Her own fingers had gone to the buttons on his ever-present blue shirt as she kicked herself out of her pants, pulling his shirttails out of his waistband and then entire garment off of him and onto the floor.

The rest of their clothing was shed, bit by bit, delicately and reverently; her sweater being the next casualty, falling to the floor noiselessly before her hands fastidiously undid his belt and slacks, quickly divesting him of them to leave them both clad only in their underwear.

Then she pressed herself against him, slipping a leg over his boxer-clad hip to pull herself against his burgeoning erection—an act that had him gasping deliciously into her mouth. Her hands skimmed the soft, flawless skin of his midsection and chest, eliciting a shiver from him that made her smile wickedly. And when Éric’s deft fingers quickly unclasped her brassiere and helped her to remove it, she pressed her bare breasts against his warm naked chest.

And then there was not a thought in her head.

His hands were electric on her skin, reverent even, as if he was worshipping her body as he explored it. She moaned into his ear as one of his hands slipped below the waistband of her underwear and gasped as he teased the slickness he found there, both because it had been so long and because they were so in tune with each other, so completely immersed in this dance between them that his touch sent ripples through her entire body.

“Joséphine,” he said, as his hand continued its ministrations, leaning forward to kiss her, her name almost a prayer on his lips. She shivered, then, though it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Her breaths began to quicken as he pressed against her and inside her with his hand, the movements slick and repetitive and the little bit of pressure of his thumb had her clawing at his bare back, desperately grinding her hips against his hand.

But then, the two of them bathed in sweat, both clad in only the bottom halves of their underwear atop the thin blanket she’d managed to spread across the couch before they could defile it, Éric’s hand gripped her arm—the arm that had been attempting to remove his boxers—and forced her to look into his eyes.

“Joséphine,” he said, and it took her a second to register that his tone had changed, and that it was much less worshipful now. His hands had withdrawn from her and from her undergarments, and she had to take a breath and wait for the haze of desire to clear before she could understand what was happening.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath before opening them again.

“When was the last time—” he started, and she immediately looked away, knowing exactly what he was about to say.

When she didn’t answer, he reached forward for her face in the way he had before and forced her to look at him.

“Pierre?” he asked, and, slowly, she nodded. “So you haven’t?” he asked, and her breath hitched. “Not since V—”

But Joséphine quickly pressed two fingers against his mouth, preventing him from finishing.

“Please don’t say his name,” she said, shaking her head. “Not here.”

She took a breath.

“I haven’t, no.” She closed her eyes, sighing. “I want it to be you,” she said, hazarding a glance at him.

Éric nodded, giving her a soft smile. He brought his hand back up to her face, cupping her jaw.

“I want you to make me forget that he ever touched me,” she said, taking in the concern she saw in his dark eyes. “I want you to burn him out of me, Éric.” She said the words with an increasing fervency, as the realization dawned on her. The realization it was not just something she wanted, but something she urgently needed. To heal. “Please,” she said, desperation beginning to build in her.

“Okay,” he said, softly, giving her a tight smile. “One thing, though,” he said, “I didn’t bring any—”

“I know,” she said, wincing, reading his mind. They didn’t have any condoms. Why would she? A man hadn’t touched her in years and any she may have had would have been long-expired. And she certainly wouldn’t have expected Éric to have any with him. Maybe in his home, but this definitely wasn’t something either of them had anticipated.

But then she counted the days in her head since her last period, then nodded. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” she said. She was due for another one in a few days, anyway; she could feel it already. Her breasts were tender and she’d been a wreck, emotionally. Even more so than usual. “It’s not the right time.”

“And if you’re wrong?” he asked, softly, one hand on her bare back, his eyes dark and lustful, but not predatory in any way. They told her that she could walk out of this at any time, if she changed her mind. As ever, she was in control here. He’d let her take the reins, as he had in every other avenue of life. And she loved him for it.

“Then we deal with it,” she said, “together.” They locked eyes, dark and light, and she smiled. Éric nodded, and she nodded, both of them now smiling in spite of everything. This was a huge step, and they both knew it. That they had gotten here, to this moment, had been a minor miracle. They couldn’t stop, not now. If they did—she didn’t know if they’d start again.

And if they were quiet, they could have the next few hours to themselves.

“Éric,” she said, and it was almost a sob.

And so he kissed her, hard, tilting his head and opening his mouth against hers, deepening the already deep kiss, and pulling her body flush with hers.

After that, she succumbed to the feel of him against her. Their remaining underwear was shed, slowly and with care, and when they were both bare, they pressed up against each other, her knee hooking over his hip again as she ground herself against his arousal.

It had been so long since she’d felt skin against her own like this, warm and primal in a such a dynamic, animalistic way, that it hit her like a drug. She couldn’t believe she’d waited so long for this—and that she’d waited so long to do this with Éric. It was everything she’d been missing in her life these past few years—one more thing Vern had taken from her—and she _revelled_ in it.

And that it was him, Éric, her partner, her saviour, and most importantly her stalwart friend through everything life had thrown at her during that time, made it so much more powerful. So much more _perfect_.

She clung to him, one hand in his glorious hair as she whispered his name against his skin, her turn to be reverent now. His face and hair and smell were so familiar to her, so dear, already, that her chest ached when she looked at him. But then his hands crept lower, cupping her arse and pulling her hips flush against his, and she couldn’t think about anything anymore.

So, at her increasing insistence, he reached down and, with an angling of her hips and a thrusting of his, sank into her, and she nearly wept, as she’d never felt anything more perfect in her life. They fit together seamlessly, even if there was the slightest pinch of pain that told her that she’d abstained much longer than she ever had before.

But then he pulled out slowly and thrust in again, slick against her folds, and the girth and length of him filled her perfectly. She couldn’t help but cry out, the noise muffled against his neck as he drove into her yet again. Then she kissed him desperately, their mouths locking together as they began to figure out a rhythm, Éric growling against her mouth as she clenched around the length of him.

And as the sweat covered her skin and the pleasure grew and the pressure built, she found her head empty for the first time in years. Because the only thing she could think about was Éric, and how fantastic it was to give in to him, finally, and to have his skin pressed against hers, her hands in his lustrous hair and his all over her body. How intoxicating the smell of him was, and how her heart felt it would burst with joy, and love—even if she wasn't quite ready to call it that—when she caught a glimpse of him and his dark wanton eyes in the ambient light.

“Éric,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his, and he smiled, slowing his pace slightly as he watched her tenderly.

And then, without warning him, she pushed him over onto his back, clambering onto his lap and sank down on him. He quickly adjusted the pillow beneath his head so that he could look up at her, and the look on his face would be something she would remember for a long time: mouth slightly open, eyes lidded and dark, watching her like she was Aphrodite herself.

She canted her hips, pulling a groan from deep in his throat. And then began to ride him, hard, as he watched her with awe, her thighs aching, his hands at her waist, on her breasts, and then back to her hips. He pressed on the nub above where they were joined and pulled a strangled cry from her throat.

And then, missing their closeness, she leaned forward and pressed her chest against his, kissing him messily as he thrust up into her, eliciting tiny, barely audible cries from her as he drove ever deeper, his fingers continuing their ministrations.

And as his mouth found hers again, the two of them with not a hairsbreadth between them, she felt the familiar yet foreign building of warmth, beginning to spread out from where he touched her to deep inside her each time he thrust.

“Éric,” she whispered, pulling her head back to look at him. He pressed harder against the bundle of nerves, and she whimpered, so close now she could almost taste it. “Harder,” she whispered, and she saw him smile that filthy smile of his before he thrust his hips up twice in quick succession, and then her breath shuddered as the pleasure burst from her centre, radiating out down her spine, down her legs and arms, and she went rigid above him as the waves washed over her and she fell into the void.

Éric never took his eyes off her as she came, instead watching her face as if he found her coming undone the most fascinating and beautiful thing in the world.

And after she started to regain her senses, Éric began to drive into her again. And just as her own orgasm began to ease, she could see now that he was close, too, his skin sheened with sweat, his eyes dark limpid pools as his breath hitched and his mouth fell open.

And now _she_ couldn’t help but watch _him_ , clenching around him to help him along and leaning down to kiss him deeply. She felt his arms tighten around her as his thrusts began to stutter, and he whispered her name against her lips.

And then he tensed, and she pulled back to watch his placidly decadent expression as she felt him pulsing inside her and the spreading warmth as he spilled into her. Then, completely spent, she dropped her head back against his neck, kissing his jaw softly.

After that, neither of them dared to move. She clung to him, her face pressed against the side of his, her fingers tracing circles on his shoulder as the sweat dried on their skin.

But as the cool night air descended on them and she started to come down from the wave of pleasure, tendrils of the old anxiety began to creep in, invading her mind before she could even allow herself to enjoy what they’d just done.

And suddenly, she began to worry. That this had been a mistake, that it had been too soon, that it’d been too risky and they should have taken precautions. Because in risking pregnancy she was risking tying herself to someone forever—and how could she have been so stupid?

But then he gently wrapped his arms around her middle and rolled them so that they both were on their sides, facing each other and still joined together, and wrapped them both in the blanket they lay on. Then his arms went around her waist again, pulling her body tight against his and kissing her face tenderly.

She looked up into his dark eyes and saw none of the tumult she was feeling, only contentment and a warm, familiar smile.

And couldn’t help but timidly smile back.

Because she knew that whatever happened— _he was here_ , _now_. He would be here no matter what transpired, for as long as he lived. Because they’d both seen each other at their worst, and it hadn’t dampened their connection. They knew each other down to the bone, and even if she knew her behaviour sometimes drove him up the wall, his affection for had always been clear in his eyes and in his actions. It had never waned. And it never would.

And the tiny kisses he dropped on her forehead made her feel loved and treasured like she never had before. She smiled, looking at him in the dim light streaming in through the window.

“ _Ça va?_ ” he asked, and she smiled, nodding.

“ _Ça va bien_ ,” she said. “As long as you’re here.”

“You’re not getting rid of me, now,” he said, and she snorted with laughter.

“Good,” she said.

He leaned forward and kissed her lips chastely in answer.

“We should probably get dressed,” he said, after a few blissful seconds, almost reluctantly. He nodded his head in the direction of Joséphine’s bedroom. “Wouldn’t want him to come out for a glass of water and find us like this.”

She nodded. Éric was right, as ever.

And so she slowly extricated herself from him, sighing as they pulled apart, shivering as the blanket was thrown back and the cool night air hit her still slightly-damp naked skin. Then, she reached for a couple of tissues to awkwardly clean herself up from the results of their lovemaking.

But Éric simply watched her, his head perched on one elbow, bare chest on full display and his hair wild after their romp. There was a slightly aggravating self-satisfied smirk on his face as she caught his eyes travelling over her bare back, as if he was trying to count every freckle there.

She tossed the tissue in the waste bin and turned to him again, unable to keep from smiling. He looked good liked this, his cheeks flushed pink beneath his swarthy complexion, lips swollen from her kisses. She’d expected this to be awkward, filled with furtive glances and apprehension over the change in their relationship.

But it wasn’t. He glanced up at her, warmth and love in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but smile back. But, still, he gave her her space. He didn’t reach out, didn’t try to pull her back into bed or control her in any way. He just watched her as she got up to go to the bathroom, naked as the day she was born, and his gaze was a comforting presence as she made her way toward the corridor.

He watched her as came back, too, and she smirked as his eyes travelled the length of her, his head still propped up on one elbow. Nakedness was a new thing for them. But interestingly, there was no awkwardness about it, no urge to cover oneself. It was almost a relief, really, for her to be that comfortable in someone else's presence, again.

And she'd hated being watched, as a rule, ever since Vern and her incarceration. She hated seeing the judgement in other’s eyes, the accusations. She knew the gossip around the _Palais_ was vicious, and that everyone had made their mind up about her.

But Éric’s gaze was nothing like that. It never had been. It was worshipful, almost. There was a hint of amazement in it, too, but it was restrained, as ever. She was only now beginning to learn to read the little bit he gave away, and she could tell he’d been as affected by what had just happened between them as she was. She’d certainly never seen him look so contented.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa bed, pulling on the sweater she’d discarded on the floor.

“Stay here,” she said, quietly, as he started to get up. She reached out to splay her hand gently across his warm, bare chest. “I’ll sneak in and get you something to wear.”

He was about to object, but she shook her head. She wasn’t letting him sleep in the same suit he’d slept in the night before. She then awkwardly began to tug the tight jeans over her slightly sticky skin.

Then she leaned down to kiss him softly, and he captured her lip between his, his fingers threading through the curls at the base of her skull. She smiled as she pulled away, shaking her head a little.

“ _C’est quoi?_ ” he asked, and she shrugged a shoulder.

“This was nice,” she said, an understatement and then some, but Éric’s eyebrows twitched upward as he smiled back at her.

“Does that mean you’d be willing to do it again?” he asked, his voice betraying little, even if his smile gave him away.

“And again, and again,” she whispered, leaning in close. She looked into his eyes, almost black in the dim light.

“Good,” he said, his expression stoic, even if she knew it meant absolutely everything to him. “That makes two of us, then.”

She nodded, and grinned, before getting up and approaching her bedroom door, still smiling like an idiot. She crept into the room, checking on the boy, whose chest rose and fell rhythmically, still mercifully asleep, and quietly changed out of her jeans and into a much more comfortable cotton sleep ensemble. She then picked up a couple of items for Éric to wear, as well as a couple of blankets and the extra pillows from her bed.

Éric pulled on the grey t-shirt and dark blue cotton pants she gave him with no objection as she made the bed for them. Then, clad in the casual clothes, he picked up his shirt and slacks and folded them, placing them on the chair next to the sofa.

“These are men’s clothes,” he said, curiously, after a moment, looking down at the garments he wore, and she noted with a smile that they were a little long on him.

“They were Pierre’s,” she said, softly, and Éric looked up at her in surprise. “I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them.”

“Joséphine,” he said, equally softly, cocking his head at her.

But she shook her head, giving him a sad smile. “It’s time,” she said, nodding, and the tentative hope she saw in Éric’s eyes as he nodded back, just once, at her, gave her a tiny thrill. “Besides,” she said, a big grin overtaking her face, “it’s worth it all just to see you in a t-shirt.”

He laughed, softly, then reached out a hand for her. She took it, submitting to him, burying her head in his neck as his arms wrapped tightly around her. In bare feet, he was a bit taller than usual in comparison to her, so much so that it was almost a little strange. But she found she that liked it. With him a few inches taller, she could press her head into his chest, have him cover her body with his, but they were still mostly at the same level, neither towering over the other. As they’d always been, in every other avenue of life.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

She let out a heavy breath against his skin, and didn’t object as he prised her arms from his body and laid her down on the little bed, climbing in beside her and covering them both with the blanket.

He pulled her back against his front, his arms strong around her, tethering her to him, keeping her from drifting away. It was the first time she’d laid like this with someone in years. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant.

“ _Ça va?_ ” Éric asked, as perceptive as ever.

She craned her neck to turn and look at him, and then turned the rest of her body over in his arms.

“Now I am,” she said, and Éric smiled softly. Then he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

He tightened his arms around her, pulling her body against his, their faces now mere centimetres apart, so close she could feel his breath puff against her face.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Joséphine,” he said, and the love in his eyes and in his voice was palpable. She couldn’t look away. It was overwhelming, yes, but comforting, nonetheless. Because he was here and he loved her, and for once, she was not alone, warm beneath the blankets and safe, for now, from the dark cloud of grief.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Éric,” she whispered, snuggling up closer to him and resting her forehead against his.

It was incredibly intimate, to sleep like this, perhaps more intimate, even, than what they’d done twenty minutes earlier. But she didn’t want to pull away and didn’t want her space, which surprised her. She smiled, in spite of herself, as she felt Éric’s breath against her cheek.

She closed her eyes. Sleep followed not long after.


End file.
